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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23199688">miracle man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdofthenile/pseuds/madeofheart'>madeofheart (nerdofthenile)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdofthenile/pseuds/nerdofthenile'>nerdofthenile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Trauma, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Loss of Faith, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Past Mind Manipulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Addiction, Self-Esteem Issues, Touch-Starved, Trans Female Character, Transitioning, are you ready for this one, its 2020 and we are allowed to dream, redemption arc, references to violence, self-destructive thoughts, violent imagery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:14:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,384</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23199688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdofthenile/pseuds/madeofheart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdofthenile/pseuds/nerdofthenile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Your whole life, "I tried and now I'm getting older"<br/>Your whole life, "I tried and now I’m getting closer"</p><p>- Oliver Tree, Miracle Man</p><p>Years after the game ends, someone wakes up in a fridge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara/Karkat Vantas, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket, some of these relationships are background!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey y'all!</p><p>sometimes when times are tough, you just... got a hankering for some of the good stuff, y'know? i still stand by the artists and writers of homestuck2 and the epilogues, but, yknow, some characters got a little dupped. its ok. but...sometimes a gamzee fan wants what a gamzee fan wants. </p><p>and i have decided to make my own damn food this time. </p><p>chapter song:<br/>miracle man by oliver tree </p><p>enjoy. :)</p><p>(PLEASE BE WARY OF THE TAGS)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s cold and dark when you come to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pounding in your pan, something worse than you’ve ever felt before, something pulsing under your skull. You groan, trying to shake the feeling off through your horns, wanting it to go away, but it doesn’t. You actually can’t even shake your horns much. What…?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your eyes peel open, only to find darkness. The motherfuck? You don’t remember shutting any light off before you conked out. Were you still asleep maybe? Was this a dream? You don’t know. Karbro would know, if you could find your husktop, could hit him up and get his miraculous grey on your screen, get some answers. He knew reality from dreamland better than anyone; he’d know, he’d help you, precious as he is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You make to sit up, but your horns hit solid wall. Huh? You try again, but it’s still there. Where… where are you? You blink your eyes open as much as your can, only to find more darkness surrounding you. The pain of your headache subsides into panic; this ain’t the meteor. This ain’t even your hive. Where are you, where are you? You flail your arms to the sides</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You meet</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Someone’s</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wh</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What the</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You twist your head to see what your right hand just collided into, only to be met with the vacant eyed stare of your favorite cat-sis, Nepeta.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But you know. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just her head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, so suddenly, the wave of memories crash into your think pan, mushing together into something so horrendous, so terrible, so horrible, it makes you feel sick. And damn can you feel it; every bone crushed to stardust under your fingers, the feel of a broken bow as you pulled, the give of skull as you bashed it to smithereens, the tear-wrench-twist of flesh and sinew as you dismantled body after body, the heady feel of power, of clarity, manipulation as your chucklevoodoos rang, make them kneel, make them pay, make them make them make make--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You throw up all over yourself without warning. Your eyes water, and if your pan didn’t ache before, it sure as hell wasn’t letting you forget it now. Oh gods, what had you done? What had you… </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Predestined. It was all predestined. It had to, hadn’t it? Had to happen--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You don’t know that, you don’t--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It wasn’t me it was all him everything was him--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You DARE put blame on your messiah--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I ain’t giving him shit, I’m giving him credit for what--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What you did--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>WE did, WE did--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>To PlEaSe HiM--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With a hoarse shout, you thrash, the fridge rocking as you writhe in the pile of corpses. Someone’s horns-- you think Sollux’s, holy shit-- slices your left arm open as your hands hit the sides, trying desperately to do… something. Anything. Your gut drops again as you gag on nothing, apparently already out of stomach content to puke. You legs come up and kick at the top of your mini prison, Equius’s teeth gashing a hole in your ankle-- you murdered him, you murdered him-- and you feel eyes on you everywhere, voices whispering, the walls closing in on you saying Gamzee Gamzee Gamzee killer killer killer you killed your friends what will you do now all alone all alone you’re gonna die here die die die die die die--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your voicebox screeches on its own accord as you crash most of your body into the top of the fridge with all your might. Something above snaps-- you hear it snap-- and suddenly the darkness gives way to light, too much light, too much and not enough all at once. Sunshine bears down on your heavy as your lug yourself over the edge of the fridge, ignoring the broken, rusted chains as you heave, eyes clenched shut, trying to will yourself to get used to the sun. For a moment, your pan connects the sunrays to Terezi-- poor Terezi, you’d always been a bit scared of her, but friendly nonetheless, and now you doubt she’d wanna come near you without being able to drive a blade through your chest-- and Kanaya-- Kanaya had wanted to kill you before, you were used to that idea-- and</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You sob, eyes brimming with tears, slipping down your face and taking small streaks of mussed facepaint with it. You don’t move to wipe it away. Karbro had always told you to keep your face clean and now</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Now</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Now you shouldn’t even be thinking of calling him Karbro. You shouldn’t even try to deserve that level of friendship with your most precious, most valued, most beautiful </span>
  <span>diamond best friend</span>
  <span> person that you once knew. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just Karkat now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thought is enough to make you cover your mouth to try and smother your crying. There you sit, in a fridge full of the dismembered bodies and heads of your once-friends and victimes, broken chains and all, crying over those you had lost, the pain, the memories. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your thinkpan was free of everyone. Of everything.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just you now, in there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You don’t know if you like it or not. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once you’ve quieted down, once the tears have stopped for now, once the memories become just a bit lighter on your shoulders, you force yourself to look up, try to get a sense of where you’ve landed. It’s a bright forest clearing. The trees grow tall around you, there are little featherbeasts flying around and chirping up a storm, little nut creatures and all the like scampering around and chittering as if to say “hi” to a motherfucker. With the sunshine not being all deadly and shit, it looks… looks so nice. Not a place for you and your dastardly self to be, nor this box of hell full of mistakes and the dead. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You pull yourself up despite your body screaming in pain. You roll out over the edge of the fridge, grunting as your back hits the ground. The grass is soft beneath you, but you don’t really pause to appreciate it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Likes of you don’t get to appreciate. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You roll over to your side and make yourself sit up, ignoring the pain, and you try to get up on shaky legs. You’re still in your god tier. It’s in absolute tatters, rags on your thin frame, but you don’t give one singular motherfuck. This thing could burn for all you care. Codpiece included. You're sure Kurloz would dare to box you over the aural clots if he heard you think that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You wonder where Kurloz is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wonder if he feels like you do. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You hold yourself almost straight. Something in your side creaks; your hand flies to that spot and you involuntarily hiss. Something’s probably broken. The parts of you that are bleeding streak purple behind you as you begin to walk (more of a stumble, really) out of the clearing, leaving the fridge behind you. You don’t look back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All you know is that you have to get out of here. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And as far away from that prison as possible. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>More tears slide down your face as your shamble off, your blood trail corrupting the serenity of nature as the sun shines right on down without a care in the world. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello all! sorry this took so long to get out! i'm trying to write at least one chapter ahead, and i'm trying to edit as well! a bit of world building here and also, believe it or not, gamzee makara making bad choices.</p>
<p>i know, big plot twist there, right?<br/>(mind the tags please!)</p>
<p>please enjoy.</p>
<p>chapter songs: <br/>high enough by k. flay<br/>hotel california by the eagles</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The city is weird. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But in the bigger picture, maybe that is for the best. You’ve happened upon this big, big city, made of metal cylinders and billboards. Something deep within you reminds you with a ping that this is like Can Town, but… well, big. A mish-mash of Alternian cities and fucking cans. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Could have been worse, let’s be honest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What is definitely worse are the people. People are everywhere. Trolls, sure, and that’s bad enough, but carapacians too, humans too, even consorts running wild beneath everyone’s feet in a mad dash to not be trampled and still catch a bus. It was domestic as a city could be. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Already you felt massively out of place. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You height alone may have turned heads-- you’ve always been kinda disproportionate?-- but you were also… the way you were. Dirty. Bloody. Still in the tatters of your godtier robes. Hair a mess, facepaint a blasphemous travesty… maybe? You think? You don’t want to apply your battered think pan to that train of thought just yet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What was worthwhile a point to pay attention to was everyone’s eyes on you as you wandered the city streets. Some were pitiful, some were definitely not. But most were just vacant stares of creeped the motherfuck out. You don’t blame them, no. Your rank ass deserved some stare down. But… but you couldn’t control the way your pusher sped up when you passed a menacing looking troll, a judgemental human, a carapacian who squinted at you just so, either studying you or scrutinizing you. A sweat built on your raw hide; your hands were shaking; a mess, a right mess, you needed-- you wanted-- you must---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You don’t know! You don’t KNOW what you want, need, must, because ain’t no MOTHERFUCKER UP AND</span>
  <b>
    <em> TELLING YOU</em>
  </b>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So you walk. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Walking brings you to a part of Can City (Can City? Sure, whatever) that for sure is in no place to judge. The shiny cylinders give way to rusty ones, the billboards to empty cardboard boxes and litter. The passerby thinned out, and you saw less and less pocket books on the shoulders of the people passing by, less and less clean faces. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Seems even the paradise of the gods had slums. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ain’t you been knew. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You do feel a bit more comfortable here, funny enough. Your trashed appearance isn’t bringing any kind of side eye because some motherfuckers round here are even worse off than you. Some human guy is walking around in circles around a light pole in nothing but a tutu. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Saaaame,” you told him, but he didn’t respond. So you kept walking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your body was beginning to tire, finally. Maybe blood loss was actually getting to you in this world? Either way, your eyes start skirting around for some place to sit, maybe rest your head. Someplace… safe? Do you want to be safe? Maybe. You want to be safe and alone. That’d be preferable. But sometimes you gotta settle for what you got, and… and… you don’t got a lot here. But you gotta work with it… but wouldn’t they like you alone? Alone or dead or… something. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Both. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your reverie is broken when you spot something green out of the corner of your vision. Green and… glowing. Glowing brightly from down an alleyway sandwiched between two can buildings. The reflection of the neon doesn’t reflect entirely right on the discoloration of the can’s dirtied tin walls. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You stand there and think. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And you go ahead in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Huddled around a fire of sorts is a group of trolls. They all are wearing black, so you can’t tell what paint they got running through their veins. They all got their heads bowed just a bit, but that doesn’t obscure the little sticks you can see them passing around. One of them tips their head up and breathes. A plume of green smoke floats up, up, up into the air and then dissipates. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Your world freezes at the smell that finds its way to you. You know that smell. Have known that smell, motherfuck, you’ve been trained on that smell since before you were conscious. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sopor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You haven’t felt the hunger weigh in on your insides in what has got to be sweeps upon sweeps upon sweeps. You haven’t felt it curl up in your lungs, your pusher, everywhere, until you feel like you’re going to die right then and there if you can’t get some on your tongue. A pounding in your head starts back up almost immediately, and you can barely fight back a groan at the pain. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Its poison. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's all that's keeping you away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's been putting holes in your pan. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's all that's kept your sorry self in check. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's unholy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>AiN’t ThAt GoNnA bE oUr NeW nOrMaL?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You step forward, your pan somewhere else (what else is new), and one of the trolls sees your approach from the shadows. His face is wrought with fear for a moment until he looks you over and seems to make a decision that you aren’t here to hurt anybody just yet. You don’t feel quite in control of yourself as you come into the circle. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Least that’s a lil’ normal. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” the troll finally decides to speak, causing the others to take notice of your presence. A few eyebrows go up, but most just regard you with a glazed stare. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The hunger….</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You in for a hit or two?” The troll offers, lifting the blunt. A generous gesture. “You look like you need it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The hunger…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ok, lets take a step back for once. Who was going to care? At one point, somewhere distant, maybe Karkat would have stopped you. Maybe Equius, poor guy, would have talked you down a different path by guilting you or something. Or even T</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even Ta</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tav</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was no one though. Not here, not now, not anymore. There was that silence in your head, beyond the pounding behind your eyes of a good old regular migraine. Here’s the zinger, the real catch, the Ultimate Motherfucking cosmic punch line: who was gonna care if you took that blunt? Who was going to care if you imbibed the most detrimental thing in your life once again?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Was something unholy if you no longer saw jack shit as holy?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You smile languidly and take the blunt from the troll. “Sure thing, brother,” you drawl, lifting the blunt to your chapped lips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure thing.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry again for this coming out so late! i'm hoping to get back on a more regular schedule now that i kinda know more about where this story is going!</p>
<p>Comments/critiques fuel the writing demon inside of me!</p>
<p>thank you for reading, have a nice day. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: ok time to write another chapter of this gamzee centric fic<br/>my brain: v...<br/>me: oh no<br/>my brain: vr...<br/>me: oh no not again<br/>my brain v...vr... vrisrezi<br/>me:<br/>me: FINE</p><p>hold tight with me guys i swear i just love them the clown is coming i promise-</p><p>please heed tags, there is some past abuse subtely implied here, you kind of have to squint at it but it is there.</p><p>chapter songs:<br/>go hard by kreayshawn<br/>ready for it? by taylor swift</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s drug bust time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You get called to drug busts all the damn time, mostly because none of the convicted have lawyers and you’re the best at what you do. You practically made this whole legal system, though these poor souls wouldn’t know; you’d fast forwarded about five thousands years into the future, and here you were now picking the fruits of your labor. Ooooh yes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Terezi Pyrope in the house, bitches. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anyways, drug busts! They wanted you there. So off you were, in a snazzy police scuttlebuggy on your way to a mega bust. “How many again?” You ask the police troll next to you as you file your claws up to their points. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh… a lot,” he responds, “didn’t get a count on a number, exactly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“None at all? Ugh,” you throw your head back, horns barely missing the head of the seat, “do I have to do everyone’s job? They’re supposed to tell you that. I’m a great legis-- a great </span>
  <em>
    <span>lawyer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I have unfortunately not yet been cloned. They don’t expect me to be present for all of them, do they?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You turn and sneer at your partner in crime, who’s leaning on the open bars of the shade of the vehicle, dividing the drivers from the prisoners. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There she is, your partner in crime, Vriska Serket. She flashes you a grin, her trademark I’m Here To Cause Trouble grin, as she leans forward through the bars a bit. “What? If they absolutely neeeeeeeed you, they’ll share.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Criminals do not deserve to share things,” you huff, swatting at her smarmy little face from between the bars, “as you would know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes. “Still sour, hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was my fucking pancake, Vriska,” you growl, only playfully though, “had my name written all over it, I could so smell it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jane made more!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because she is a troll saint, and you are a demoness!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna soooooooo kick your ass once we get out of this scuttle,” Vriska mumbles, pressing her entire face into the bars and basically waffle-pressing her face. She frowns, which makes you laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, looking like a dented hunk of metal? Like you are right now? Puh lease. I’d tap right on over you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The police troll driving looks uncomfortable with your back and forth. Probably because it sounds like pitch flirting. But hey, anyone who knows how you and Vriska operate know that this kind of banter was good. After you brought her back from the void, it had been eerily silent between the two of you. You didn’t know how to talk to her after everything, and for once, she didn’t know what to say either. It took pestering from Karkat, shoves from Dave, and long long long LONG sessions with Rose to get to the point of comfort you are now. You’re actually kinda proud. With Vriska, progress is hard to come by.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The scuttlebuggy swerves onto a dimly lit street in the North End of Can City. You can tell it’s the North End because it reeks of lack of sanitation-- a fault you’ve brought up with government officials constantly. The North End has always been a popular spot for your legal division. Seems everyone who wants to commit a crime commits one around here. In the reflecting mirror, you see Vriska turn and frown at the buildings. “Fucking hate this place, it’s so damn trashy,” she mumbles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Says you,” you sniff. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey! I’m not trash. I’m recyclable. Eeeeeeeeveryone should recycle you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vriska Serket for the environment,” you chuckle, adjusting your glasses and taking out your cane, “new slogan, who would’ve thought.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s fucking English’s job, not mine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vriska Serket for the environment, Vriska Serket for the environmeeeent~!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uuuuuuuugh, has anyone told you to your ugly face that you’re annoying?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not anyone alive, no, except you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The police troll seems to fight back a sigh of relief as you come across the scene. You smell flashing lights and the fabric cleaner smell of the official uniform of the police squadron. The vehicle stops, and you don’t waste time; you open the door and clamber out. The air is already thick with the substances of choice; sopor, no doubt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You smell Vriska hop out, and she’s about to kick your cane just to be bitchy when she smells it too. She pauses, stops. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yeah. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You hate this particular fucking drug. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Vriska breathes next to you, “this again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Every time” you say as the two of you walk forward, “they just don’t quit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think they can,” Vriska adds shrewdly, crossing her arms as you walk to survey the case. “Not without going berzerk, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your eyebrows twitch a bit. “Right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Progress didn’t mean perfect. Vriska still hasn’t memorized all your boundaries, including the ones “gifted” to you post game when you were hit with the faint memories of your past and dead selves. So comments like that hit a bit too close with a few of your past selves and their memories…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You brush it off and approach one of the senior officers, a somber old carapacian with a hint of old Derse in his chipped old Common speak. You nod stiffly. This was insanely run of the mill. Bunch of people in the round up, all found in the act, put up a bit of a fight. All trolls, which wasn’t too uncommon; no drug bust was species exclusionary. Sopor drugs found at the scene (duh) in abundance, a few human drugs, mostly heroine, even some consort drugs of choice, mostly hypercandies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They go all out, hm,” you sniff. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The officer shrugs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some of the not completely gone ones called for lawyers on the spot or they wouldn’t cooperate, and now you were here. The squad had them lined up on the wall, some scowling, some dazed in a drug hazed bliss. An ambulance was currently carting away some of those who had overdosed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vriska trailing behind you (you can smell her restlessness to get on with doing something), you walk towards the trolls on the wall.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>splitting this into two chapters because it's a bit long! hope you enjoyed the cute, working-through-their-rough-patches vrisrezi before shit really starts to hit the fan!</p><p>Comments/critiques feed the writing demon inside of me!</p><p>hope you all smile today. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter song: <br/>eleanor rigby by the beatles</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Typically, the ones who had requested you were young.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hemocaste system has of course been done away with-- the party at Karkat and Dave’s the night of the official announcement had been spectacular, how could you forget the purpose of such a celebration?-- and the law was no properly blind (heh), but that didn't mean certain patterns didn't pop up regardless of color. Like younger trolls. The younger they were, the fiestier they were. It irked you, maybe because it reminded you too much of the brash group of friends you had known on Alternia, starstruck and dumb and thinking they were invincible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vriska drifts off down the line, her bored curiosity ever insatiable, as you go through the drills with one of the trolls. Blah blah just drugs blah blah I plead the whatever. You’re practically yawning, etc etc. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh… Terezi?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold on Vriska-- what do you mean, ‘got it legally’? Sopor is illegal to consume outside a recuperacoon, Mr. Rotten Strawberry Jelly, and it looks pretty damn baked to me, so I’m partial to believe that you cannot, in fact, walk away right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Terezi?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I said, hold on, Vriska-- no, stop crying, it will not help you, nor look good on the report. Or the newspapers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <b>Tereziiiiiiii</b>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my gog, hold on a second, WHAT, Vriska?! What do you want!?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You huff and toddle over, wildly tapping your cane in front of you, pretending to have to actually use it just to give you an excuse to whack a few people in your annoyance. You come to Vriska’s size and pause. Vriska smells of apprehension, anger, butl-- most uncharacteristically of all-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>nervous. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Why do you smell nervous,” you begin, eyebrows furrowing, “I know something is bad when you get nervous.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just… fuck. Smell in front of you for a sec,” she says, “and tell me what you see.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hm. You take a whiff. A troll rounded up on the wall. Tall? Pretty thin, reeks of malnourishment. Of sleep; he’s barely awake, definitely doped up to hell and back. Smells of regret and sadness and rage and…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vriska,” you speak, wanting to sound sure, but your voice comes out wobbly, “Vriska, what is in front of me right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you wanna know?” Vriska hisses. You hear her shuffle around herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do I,” you whisper, disbelief flooding your system, inch by inch, “do I want to know?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably not,” Vriska mumbles a little. “Buuuuuuuut, you’re gonna ask anyway. Why? Because that’s just how Pyrope rolls.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You take a step forward. There is something </span>
  <em>
    <span>rotted </span>
  </em>
  <span>about this troll, rotted and familiar in a way that is making your nutritional sac do flips. You extend your cane and poke at the barely there troll. He quietly whimpers at the poke, but that is all you need to place the voice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You sigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok,” you say, stepping back, “ok. So. That. He’s. Here. Huh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vriska frowns, and you can taste the bubbling anger in her chest steadily replacing her confusion. It changes the air around her. “I thought I left him in that fridge.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You… did.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then what the fuck is he doing back here???????? We sure as hell don’t want him. Don’t need him. Don’t even think about him! So how the hell did he crawl his dirty, scrawny ass back here, and how the hell did he--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vriska,” you interject, the clarity of your voice calming even yourself. “It’s fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Since your reconciliation, Vriska has done this with things you found touchy. And while you appreciate it, you know it’s coming from a good place (as good as Vriska can get, anyway, you can meet halfway there), sometimes, in classic Vriska fashion, she overcompensates. And right now, you don’t need her words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You need as much silence as possible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You carefully approach the troll, not wanting to name him yet for fear of jinxing it. Slowly, you kneel down and reach out. Your fingers skim along his neck. A misshot on your part. They trail to take him by the chin, which gets another whimper out of him. You pinch the skin hard. The smell of sleep is still heavy on him, but he is definitely regaining some consciousness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You slap him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gasps, and yep, that’s all you need. You stand, ignoring Vriska’s call of your name, and you stalk over to an officer, snapping to get his attention. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“See that troll over there?” You stab your cane in the direction of the clown, “I want him locked in solitary, immediately.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wh… what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want him locked in solitary, immediately, without questions, orders from </span>
  <em>
    <span>ME</span>
  </em>
  <span>, ok? Just do it.” You tilt your head in the clown’s direction, mind racing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just… it’s nothing… it's nothing abnormally... bad." You shrug, his eyes locked on you like your pusher is locked on panic mode. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I’m just not taking chances this time.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>realized this would be short so I uploaded early! another update should be on its way this week. wee!</p><p>Comments/critiques feed the writing demon inside of me!</p><p>have a swell day, y'all, thank you for your time, go out there and smile. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>love how i was like "new update next week teehehehehehee!" and then proceeded to not update for two months. how very swag of me. </p><p>in all seriousness though, i'm sorry this took so long to come out! i had a bit of writers block paired with some personal issues that sucked all the motivation to write out of me. now i'm back though! thanks for those who were ultra patient, i appreciate you all. also, i'm uploading two chapters today to make up for my absence! i hope they're good. they're more of a set up for the upcoming chapters, so WARNING for some major angst ahead and MIND THE TAGS PLEASE!</p><p>reminder that you all are loved no matter what!</p><p>chapter songs:<br/>message man by twenty one pilots<br/>nightmare by set it off</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You, GAMZEE MAKARA, wake up alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which is… different. From the about-a-month you had wasted on this new planet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You slowly move to sit up and see where the other trolls are who you’ve frequented with since your gifted (and abused) freedom on Earth C. Usually you all are blissed out from the sopor the night before, but you found yourself alone in an empty white walled room and actually now that you mention it you can’t sit up at all because your arms are strapped down to your sides. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ok. Um. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, white colored, enclosed spaces with a slight chill where you couldn’t move that much and were generally fridge-like were.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Decidedly not your thing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Especially tied down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You tug a bit more frantically, the sluggish feeling of sleep quickly washing off of you as you become more aware. It’s not just your arms; your ankles are strapped down too. When you try to lift your head, there is a tug at your horns, though instead of whatever stretchy sort of material your limbs were bound with, these were metal and heavy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The panic dial went from 0 to 100 really, really quick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You start jerking at your bonds, limbs pulling and testing but not making anything budge. Your voice box starts with panting, then heaving, then devolves into screams and shrieks until your throat feels raw. No one comes. It is empty and echoing and too small. You feel sick, like you want to throw up, but you can’t. There are spots in your vision. You keep thrashing, your screams starting to sound more like sobs to your ears. But no one comes no one ever comes why would they the damn thing was </span>
  <em>
    <span>chained to motherfucking hell, you ain’t getting outta here </span>
  </em>
  <span>and--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You think people come in. You don’t really know. You were too busy seeing the apparitions of dismembered heads in the corners of your vision, hearing voices that weren’t there and crying until your skin felt itchy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Around that point you think you got knocked out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Had to have, because when you wake up, you’re in a different room. This time it’s darker walls, grey, and your horns feel lighter. Still strapped down, but whatever you’re lying on now feels less like cold cement and more like plastic. It was still cold. But it was better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You could settle, for better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes you minutes of lying there in fear and turmoil, for you to remember what had happened. You had been lying with some of the others in one of the makeshift piles, a sopor stick lodged between your fingers. Comfortably in a haze you had welcomed back with open arms; you had forgotten what the high was like. It took you above yourself, and your body, no pressures or headaches or loneliness to be found. You were comfortably suspended in the air of nothingness, where thought nor reason could bring you down. An old friend, a bliss you didn’t know you had missed so much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then there were lights. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Loud voices. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Batons. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Handcuffs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rough hands on you, almost pulling you from the haze you had lost yourself too for the weeks you had been here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A familiar… a familiar something. You couldn’t place it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And now you were here.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You test your bonds again, but admittedly a little less spastically. You’re secured down super tight. Weak as you are after… after everything, you aren’t getting out of it. You eventually stop struggling and you just lie down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Breathe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stare at the ceiling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It dawns on you pretty quickly that you can’t do much else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Contrary to popular belief, you weren’t that dumb. You could put two and two together. You knew you damn well weren’t in Troll Kansas anymore, and that your little group of druggies had probably got busted, and now you were in some kind of jail. You were able to crane your head just a bit to see the door to your room, and yep, there were bars over the window near the top of it. Definitely a jail cell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Funniest thing, you’ve sinned so much and yet the very thing that helped you be free of it all was what got you nabbed. Almost makes you laugh a bit. Which you do. And you dissolve into tears right after. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crying ends up being a wonderful distraction from the growing pit of dread in your stomach.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>reminder that jails would be much more effective if they worked to help prisoners get out of sticky situations like poverty or drug abuse instead of being literal prisons, that would be cool. </p><p>thank you so much for reading!</p><p>comments/critiques feed the writing demon inside of me!</p><p>be safe, smile at least once today, and take care of yourself!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter song:<br/>way down we go by kaleo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You, hindsight, don’t recall much from your first withdrawal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’d been a little distracted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Flashing lights and puppets are what you recall most, and a feeling akin to having the rug pulled out from under you as your world was suddenly dissolved into mush and all you knew was exposed as a lie. That’s what you remembered most. Trapped in a game and the blaringness of every construct laid bare before you, your lack of sopor only gave way to perceived godhood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which, then, had been true. You had been a god then. Had felt like one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was then, this is now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because now, no game, no rules, and no motherfucking plot armour could protect you from biology. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few hours later from your most recent wake up, the headache starts. Not unlike the ones you’ve had before, but this one seemed to be extra persistent and would not leave you be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, chills. More chilly than the room could ever be. It got so cold, so unbearably cold. You swore that your highblood body was bound to just shut down. You shivered in that room, teeth chattering, until it went as quickly as it had come and did a reverse on you, and suddenly it was the heat that was unbearable. You felt itchy, heated, like the only way to feel better would be to peel off your damn skin at this point. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It continued. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t rest. You start going fuzzy, and you think some motherfucker came in to give you something to eat and drink, but hell if you could keep it down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything feels dry. Everything feels damp. Everything feels numb. Everything feels like sharp, sharp pain. You scream, you cry, you know deep down what is happening to you because all you can think about is sopor sopor sopor and pain pain pain and nothing else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hey, at least it’s a break from the “you fucked up everything in your life” train of thought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You know you’re seeing things. Everything is blurred together. Things go fast and things go slow. You think people come in, but you can’t even piece them together beyond the blur. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And you don’t care. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The occupants of your cell are you, yourself, and you. And there’s one you in the corner, constantly screaming at you,with red-orange eyes, covered in rainbow splotches, and there’s a you in the other, a small, weeping, 6 sweep old Gamzee, with sand on his bare feet, just crying at you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They both tell you that you deserve this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They tell you you deserve this pain, that this was a long time coming. What is a vessel without punishment? The red-eyed you tears his horns out, bit by bit, and you can do nothing but watch as the nerves detach from your head and he stabs them into his own eyes, gouges them out, screams that even that would be no way to repent to your Messiahs. And the smaller you cries, his tears scorch at his young face until he is well and as scarred as a psionic, eyes wide as he pleads with you to not do this to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You would escape them if you could fucking sleep, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>CAN’T</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If this ain’t hell...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You feel feverish. You know that you start crying dry at some point. And you know that people do come into your cell to try and feed you, give you water, which again, you can’t keep down. They never unstrap you. Not even to go to the bathroom. Everything about you is soiled through with sweat and vomit and other things... </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...yeah, you wouldn’t want to touch you either. No one should ever touch your sorry carcass except if it's to throw it out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. Almost. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they come, sometimes, to try and keep useless food and water down your gullet, there is sometimes this… hand. It cups your cheek, mockingly tender, as if to taunt you. It’s warm, calloused, small, and it just kind of… pets at your cheek. It reminds you of something, but you can’t exactly place it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And you hate it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the worst torture of this entire thing, that damn motherfucking hand on your face nug, just skimming over your skin like you’re something precious. It’s teasing, relentlessly so, and you hate it. You think you snap your jaws at it a few times? You can’t remember. All you know is that every damn time that stupid ass hand touches your face, you end up breaking down and they manage to get more food into you then before, which just ends up on the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So ha to them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You guess. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The final stage of your withdrawal is when you fall off the thread of time. Everything is sharp pain and aches and darkness, only intersected by infrequent moments where you wake up to someone screaming in agony before you realize that you’re the one screaming and then you fall back off into nothingness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Isn’t that poetic? The Lord of Time really did abandon you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They say that the final stage is the worst. You didn’t think it was anything that different from the misery before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Same pain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Different day. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oh boy, to whom does that warm hand belong to, we gotta wonder, oh booooooooy...</p><p>comments/critiques feed the writing demon inside me!</p><p>thank you for reading, have a splendid day, you guys. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: ok no more vrisrezi anything, we got it out of our system<br/>brain: ok<br/>me:<br/>brain:<br/>me:<br/>brain: we both are lying to ourselves<br/>me, already writing more vrisrezi into a gamzee-centric fic: yeah i knOW-</p><p>anyways!  this was a fun chapter to write and edit (i probably still missed things, I apologize), i hope it's good! things are getting spicy.</p><p>also, you may notice that some tags have changed. as i write and edit my outline for this fic, and get new ideas for it, teh plots changed some! and thus some tags have switched or been edited, or cut down on to reduce some tag ramble clutter that isn't necessary. be sure to check just in case i've tagged something that stands as a trigger. </p><p>enjoy!</p><p>chapter songs:<br/>mercy by duffy (idk why this was the song i listened to to write the interrogation scene but welp)<br/>my blood by ellie goulding</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You wake up from a dazed slumber sitting upright. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is new. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nonexistent gods only knew how long you’d been in that forsaken room. Eons, it felt like. You’d almost gotten used to the pain and the loneliness (again), but now it seems it was time to tip that scale again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Speaking of scales, you look forward and Terezi Pyrope is sitting directly across from you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Motherfuck- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You, the smooth motherfucker you are, promptly throw up. Just, lean forward, head hanging down, and everything you had managed to keep down in the past few days comes right back up. You’re heaving, and then trying to catch your breath as you cough and clear your airways. You stare at the floor, trying to ignore the mess you just made, unable to pick your head back up both from weakness and the fact that you are in the same room as someone whose life you were instrumental in destroying (literally and figuratively) on many occasions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time you glance up, she… doesn't look halfway amused. Oh and apparently Vriska’s there too, whom you didn’t notice before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Great. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you done?” Terezi asks, her voice just as grating as your remember, “Because there are many other places I’d rather be right now, not here listening to you puke up a disgusting shade of Granny Apple Green.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vriska scoffs. “You legit are just doing more interrogations after this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and then I am going hive, showering, and then you are treating me to dinner.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, a-- wait, whaaaaaaaat?! Since when?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Since just now, when I decided that little bitches get to buy me dinner when they’re being bitchy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you calling me a little bitch? Pyrope, don’t preach to a choir when you’re sitting in the pulpit!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I made the court pulpit my own bitch a long time ago, I can’t be a little bitch to something that I have indeed already made my--wait for it--bitch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a bit like watching two juggalos play toss with a dismembered head. It’s fascinating but also really creepy how they toss back and forth like it’s nothing. You ain’t no dumbass, you’re aware that to Terezi you should technically be dead where you sit, but Terezi and Vriska are just. Talking. Like you ain’t there. And upon further inspection, talking like you ain’t there and chained to a chair</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a rogue lusii. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You can’t find it in yourself to be angry. You’re so tired. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their attention eventually turns back to you. You wish it hadn’t. You had liked the background, it was much quieter that way. Both girls have two very special sets of eyes that you would rather have not staring at you. You note subconsciously that Terezi’s eyes are blank and red. Blind, yet again. You wonder how that happened. Ain’t your place to ask, or even talk right now, but you wonder regardless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyways. Back to Mr. Plum Vomit.” Terezi shuffles a few papers in front of her, on the little interrogation table, and clears her throat. “I’ve been monitoring you the past few weeks. I suppose withdrawal in isolation, without husktop screens nor coolkid humans, isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>nearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>as lethal as with. Who would have thought.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You swallow and avert your eyes. Everything in this room is too bright. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...it’s… it’s gone surprisingly well. Yet again, you defy all laws of physics and expectations. I had a whole squad of indigobloods with electric pitchforks at the ready. It was a sad waste of money and trollpower.” Vriska snorts again, but it’s more derisive. She doesn’t comment, though. Terezi finally seems to sniff out the paper she was looking for, and she clicks her pen open with a nice </span>
  <em>
    <span>shk. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have some questions for you,” her voice goes suddenly icy, “and you are going to answer them. If you refuse to talk, don’t worry, I have your holding cell booked for your imprisonment for another month, and I can plop you right back the fuck in there if I see a need to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your body goes rigid. You nod.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Terezi drawls, and “looks” at her paper. “What do you remember before you were found?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You scramble to recall, because as terrifying as speaking sounds, you do </span>
  <em>
    <span>NOT </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to go back there. Back to the four walls, back to the straps holding you down to the bench, back to the deafening silence of your mind. You really don’t remember much of what she’s asking you to remember, just lights and sounds and comforting, familiar, neon green numbness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What you wouldn’t give… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothin’ much,” you mumble, cringing at how hoarse your voice sounds, “ain’t remember much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, what can you remember?” Terezi doesn’t skip a motherfucking beat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“....lights. Sounds. Uh… yeah.” Your answer feels and sounds lame. Terezi scribbles something down anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vriska raises an eyebrow. Terezi’s handwriting is… very Terezi. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok. Do you remember who you were with?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...no.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember how you got there?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...woke up, and just… walked, til I motherfucking found the place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mmhm. And what were you on when we found you there?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“......what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You heard me. What were you on when we found you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vriska’s got that smarmy ass triumphant look on her face, as Terezi corners you, metaphorically speaking. Nowhere to go, with how both of them are pinning you. Your fists clench, pulling at the chains just to have something to ground you. The clarity of your pan is dissolving into panic, and quickly. And you’re pausing too motherfucking long, because Terezi gives a grated “Well?” as if that will jumpstart your anxiety into fucking off a little motherfucking faster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... sopor,” you practically whimper, voice on the verge of tears, and you really feel like you’re going to break down in front of both of them, which you really don’t want to do. Neither of them seem nor look surprised. Terezi scribbles it down regardless. Then she asks a question you weren’t prepared for. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And how are you doing now? You’re ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vriska mumbles something about blonde human girls and psychology, but you’re so taken aback that you can’t bother with Vriska’s mutterings at the moment. How… how </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you? How are you. You? </span>
  <em>
    <span>You!?</span>
  </em>
  <span> You aren’t entirely sure how or why you’ve been kept alive, you’re scared, you’re confused, and most of all, you’re so, so, so, so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>exhausted. You could sleep a million years and still want to nap. You haven’t had a full day’s sleep in literal ages….</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gamzee? Gamzee. Hello? Earth C to clown-fucker,” Vriska is snapping for your attention, and you shake from your reverie. Vriska looks normal annoyed, while Terezi looks concerned annoyed, which is a terrible look on her towards you and you want that shit to stop immediately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... tired,” you offer, hoping that’s enough. By the looks on their faces, it isn’t, but they take it anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The questions continue, and you give half assed answers as best you can. You don’t know exactly what Terezi wants of you. Does she want honesty, or is she looking for something to fight? You don’t know. And not knowing is going to drive you up a wall mad. If you weren’t so tired and so scared for your life, you may very well have Raged by now. Luckily you weren’t. You don’t know if you could mentally handle bloodshed like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not as alone as you are now, up there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok. Final question,” Terezi says, revealing the light at the end of the tunnel. She actually picks up her head for this one, turning her attention away from her paper. Her blank gaze could kill a warmer blood, you have no doubt. You ain’t even looking at her no more but you’re shivering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about your religious beliefs as they stand right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your eyes flutter closed. No. You can’t take this anymore. The lights, their faces, their stares, their questions. No more. You can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>answer this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not when you aren’t sure of it yourself. Oh, but you are, aren’t you? Have been since you woke up here with an empty pan and an empty pusher, bloodied and beaten and broken, confused as the day your sorry ass hatched, lonely as the day Goatdad decided you weren’t worth his </span>
  <em>
    <span>motherfucking </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>dedication. </em>
  </b>
  <span>You can’t. You can’t. You can’t, it’s all you’ve ever had, all you’ve ever wanted, the worth, the praise, the purpose, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please….</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please…</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Please…</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... I don’t believe,” you whisper, feeling a tear fall down your cheek. You couldn’t wipe it away or hide it if you tried, hands tied down the way they are. You have to repeat yourself, to hammer it hive, to make it real, the absence in your being given life in words. Your voice is choked up more than you would have liked. “I don’t believe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vriska quirks an eyebrow. Terezi sits stock still for a moment. Then she just writes down one more scribble before clicking the pen shut. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shk. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think I’m done here.” She nods, waves to Vriska, who rolls her eyes, more indifferent than before, and hands Terezi her cane. She stands, gathers the papers, and ushers Vriska up. “Sit there and pretend to look pretty even though you’re an ugly little grape,” Terezi said, “we will be back shortly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They left through a door blended perfectly into the wall, said door locking behind them with an audible click. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You let yourself cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You don’t know when they come back, could have been an hour or a day, you don’t know. All you know is that you cried until your eyes felt sore and your horns ached with the loss of moisture in your think pan, and if you were tired before you were drop dead exhausted now. But then the door opens, and Terezi re-enters, followed by Vriska. You watch blearily as the door closes and they stand before you, not sitting down as they were before. Terezi now holds a single file in her hands, cane hanging off her wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We, as a group, have reached a… conclusion, about you,” Terezi says, tapping the file. “About what course to take. Granted, I’d like you to know, it could have been much worse than what it was.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There was a vote to cull you,” Vriska interjected, “but some people said ‘noooooooo, no more death, no more bloodshed, waaaaaaaah, I’m a massive crybaby--’”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Terezi whaps her in the head with her cane. Vriska yelps. But at least she stops. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“After reviewing your situation, and taking what you so eloquently told me during our little chat,” she said, “we have voted that you may live. But not without strict guidance. And after some extremely careful, loud, grating, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>annoying </span>
  </em>
  <span>deliberations… we have decided what will become of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The way she said that was… super motherfucking foreboding. You swallow, and you think you’re shaking a bit, because the chains are rattling. Your pan, growing lethargic, is trying it’s damndest to catch up, but can’t seem to properly connect with your mouth, seeing as you spew the following bullshit out of pure reaction to her words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The look the two girls exchange is unreadable, but it’s an exchange no matter which way you slice it. You go unanswered, thankfully. Why the motherfuck would you say that, they don’t want to hear your sorry carcass more than they gotta….</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Terezi gestures something, and Vriska goes to open the door. She barks something down what you assume is a hall, and a few guards come in, tools in hand to get out out of the chair and presumably take you somewhere. Your eyes flit to Terezi. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your first, let’s call it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>trial, </span>
  </em>
  <span>will be relocation. It can be permanent relocation, if you behave. Which I think you will. No one has misbehaved, once, where you’re going. He has a knack for the broken ones, I suppose.” Her smile could cut motherfucking ice</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Who’s… wait, wait, wait a second, who’s “</span>
  <em>
    <span>he”?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good luck.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yes. "he" is exactly who you think he is. </p><p>Comments/critiques feed the writing demon inside of me!</p><p>thank you so so so much for reading, you are lovely. have a wonderful day, you deserve happiness. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>OOF IM SORRY YALL It's been a hot minute, hasn't it!?!?!?!? I hope everyone is staying safe and keeping their heads somewhat screwed on as the year commences. </p><p>My absence can of course be based on a lot of factors (I was gone longer than I thought!!) but the main big thing is... I HAVE MOVED!!!! I'm very excited, I'm in a city now, which is very exciting and very overwhelming. But I'm very happy and ready to hop back onto the bandwagon!</p><p>Bandwagon being writing the epilogues we deserved, dammit. To the art team of HS2: I love you, the art is fantastic. To whoever is writing the story itself: also love you, but it is simply not my cuppa. Best to you, but no. </p><p>Anyways! Sorry once again for my absence, now that I'm set and settled and somewhat stabilized, I'm hoping to get back to more regular updates!</p><p>This chapter stands as your friendly reminder that of all the characters who have been massively robbed in the epilogues, no character was more jipped than The Mayor hands down. He deserved better. </p><p>Enjoy. &lt;3</p><p>chapter songs:<br/>friend like me [electroswing remix] - dave wave<br/>sweet dreams - eurythmics</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You ain’t never paid much attention to The Mayor on the meteor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Guess you should have. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the jailers plop you in front of the little mansion, he’s standing at the door already, all civil looking and familiar in a weird way. You’re tall, as most purples are, and The Mayor’s really damn short. Doesn’t even make it to your hip. He scuttles over, chirping at one of the carapacian guards in that weird throaty language the carapacians had that was hard to replicate. They chirp for a while before the Mayor looks at you. He seems to take you in, giving you a full body look, which was extremely nerve wracking, before motherfucking nodding like you were a commissioned piece of art and he motherfucking approved, brother, approved. He waves you in, scuttles right up the stairs to the mansion doors, and you grunt as the guards who brought you here yank you forward to follow. They’ve still got your hands chained up nice and tight in front of you. And according to Terezi, the band they put on your ankle was to make sure you couldn’t escape The Mayor’s if you tried, not unless you wanted an electric shock (“Thank Lispy McBanana for that one! He sends his regards and a middle finger in your direction.”). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Motherfucking house arrest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Long as you could sleep sometime in there, you were ok with that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor ushers your guards and you through the lobby and into what looked like a living room. Nice ass couches, a table, a fireplace with a little fire rumbling in it, even though it was hot outside. He gestures for you to sit on the couch, which the guards gladly help you do with a forceful shove. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor angrily chirps. The guards raise their hands in mock surrender. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a lot of chirping then, which leaves you very out of the loop, and increasingly nervous because of it. You feel like you don’t really know what’s going on beyond what you were told by Terezi, which… well. She doesn’t have your best interests at pusher, and for good reason. You’d hate you too, were you her. But all she said was you were being relocated to someone who could handle you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And apparently that was The Mayor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The guards finally seem to give up, and they turn to you. You’re taken by surprise, enough to jump, when they unlock your chains. They don’t cut the ankle band, but you’re grateful for the freedom to rotate your wrists freely and get some circulation back. More chirps, and they hand The Mayor the remote and sensor for your ankle band, and then just like that, they’re gone. You and this little carapacian. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Meh. You’ll take it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor chirps at you for a second more, and you stare blankly, because like fuck you understand. He seems to get this though, and instead raises his strange claw-like fingers, gesturing for you to wait there, and hurries away into a different room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hey, orders! You can do orders. You stay put. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He comes back with a tray of…. Of something. Cans, there are cans on there. He comes back and places the tray reverently on the coffee table in front of the fire, and struggles to shove the table over to you. You don’t know if you’re allowed to move just yet, so you stay put, not helping as he manages to get the table right in front of you. He triumphantly chirps, then seems to chirp madly at you. You shrink back a bit, feeling seen. He then puts the tray in front of you and looks at you expectantly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You…. what? Oh, wait, shit, the labels. This is canned food. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s feeding you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s… he’s feeding you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly, it’s not that special. It’s just food. Ain’t even been opened yet. But it’s the kindest damn thing you’ve ever motherfucking experienced since you dropped down here alive, and it makes a lump form in your throat. You try to swallow it, but just like poking a scab, it makes it worse. And by worse, you mean bursting into tears right where you sit. Mayor looks suddenly distressed, and he keeps clicking and poking at you like no one’s business, like you’re the ejector button on a crashing ship but the thing is that the crashing ship is </span>
  <em>
    <span>you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He chitters and makes weird carapacian noises, but all you can do is sit there and cry and think of how not even your goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>lusus </span>
  </em>
  <span>brought you food to the point where you ain’t had to stand to get it, ain’t had to go looking for something edible, ain’t had to eat whatever you could, ain’t had to find that the only thing that they always were supplying you was that green shit in your ‘cuperacoon and-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor snaps in front of your face. You gasp ‘awake’ and look at him. He chirps and points to the tray again, and then to your chest. You look between him and the food, and then slowly lift a can. It seems to satisfy him enough to go take his own can and sit on the chair across from you. He gnaws on the can lid. You look at the metal and wipe some tears from your face, the fingertips coming away clean if not damp. It’s hitting you now that both Vriska and Terezi have seen you bare, without your paint. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...not like you been needing it much anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You pick the can lid open with your stunted claws, clipped during your imprisonment. The Mayor sees this, and chirps in excitement. He hands his gnawed on can to you, once you have yours open. You raise an eyebrow. He- what? He chirps harder at you and makes a twisting motion with his hands. Oh. He wants you to open it? You do so. He claps happily and then takes the can back from you. He chirps with such sincerity and pride, and it feels misplaced in your direction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He and your sorry self eat canned food in silence. You prefer it that way. Who’d have thought, all this time, every damn trial, and the thing the shadows and voices seemed to fear at all costs was The gods-be-motherfucking-damned Mayor. Then again, maybe he just was adorable and sweet and good enough that you had no need to dwell on the inner workings of your mind. Seemed answer enough. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor took the empty cans once you were done (well, done enough, you only ate a bit, the small bit you knew you’d be able to keep down) and he chirps like crazy and ushers you to stand. You awkwardly do, and gasp as he starts pushing you forwards down a hall. Free movement, not restrained, not knocked out, and not overly sluggish and drugged up to motherfucking hell is… it’s weird, and rare. You don’t know what to think about it. The greedy half of you relishes it, while the other wants to be handcuffed just to know you won’t hurt nobody no more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’re afraid of that, every day you’re off sopor, even though you’ve apparently been off of it for over a month. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor stops in front of a tall door in a gilded hallway. He swings the door open with a small ‘ta da!’ gesture and waves you inside. You step through the threshold to a nicely plain room, bare of any real personality but at least it’s not a cell. There’s a desk, a chair, a rug, a nice picture on the wall, a bed. No recuperacoon, which you weren’t surprised about. Sopor that close… not a great idea. You didn’t trust yourself yet, so why would literally anyone else?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor sees you situated, shows you where your clothes are (motherfucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>clothes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not no prison garb no more, actual clothes), chirps and chitters and fusses til your horns hurt and your pan is spinning. It’s much too nice a room. It’s much too nice a situation. It’s much too nice a… a everything. When your eyes are properly spinning like a top, The Mayor looks at you a moment. He then chirps, jumps up to your collarbone height, and gives you a solid pat on the shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luckily that is when he turns and leaves, and as the door closes behind him, your tears fall and drip to the floor beneath you.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>To those of you who thought "he" was Karkat: I'm sorry, but kinda not, and also, mwahahahaha. </p><p>#TheMayorNeedsRights2020</p><p>I hope everyone is doing ok, I hope you all smile at least once this week, and I hope this story is good! Lemme know what you wanna see happen, or what works, or what doesn't. I love hearing stuff. Hit me with 'em. </p><p>As always, you all are loved loved loved and never forget it! Hopefully will update next weekish. </p><p>Have a splendid day. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HI I KEEP DISAPPEARING I'M SO SORRY Y'ALL life is absolute insanity sometimes and my motivation to write is sapped. But finally I have this chapter ready and the next one on the docks! This one is a bit of filler just solidifying that The Mayor is The Only Character and then we will get the plot back up and rolling next chapter. </p><p>Thank you to everyone's patience, and if you've been impatient, you're extremely valid and I apologize. Back on the bandwagon now and planning to keep chugging!</p><p>chapter songs:<br/>dream weaver - gary wright<br/>safe and sound - taylor swift</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s raining. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s raining and you’re standing in a field. There are these wicked little wildflowers everywhere. They sway to their own tune and melody, their own song and voice. You have to envy living things like that. You would, if you had the state of mind. But for now, you’re standing with your face tipped upwards to catch the raindrops on your face. You have to keep blinking so you can see, so your poor oculars don’t get squeamish and pain you. All you can hear is the patter of water against the bosom of nature, and your skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You smile, for this is peace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When you smile, your teeth are bared. The water feels so g- wait. Your eyes open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not water anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Red. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s red, falling from the sky. Your smile falls, and you stumble backwards. Orange joins the red. Then yellow. Then green. Jade. Teal. Cerulean. Indigo. Violet. Fuchsia. The entire rainbow is suddenly cascading down around you, getting into your eyes, your mouth, just everywhere, staining your teeth and dripping down your throat. Everything reeks of that metal-blood-tang. You look down. The grass is soaked in blood, and the flowers have shrivelled up. They no longer dance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They are as dead as the corpses you caused to be corpses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You run. You slip a few times, getting your clothes all bloodied the motherfuck up, and you run. You run through just--fuck, literal plains of blood, raining from the sky in some sort of technicolor bullshit you wrought upon yourself. Because it was you, wasn’t it? Blame your past or Lord English or whoever, but it was by your hand which spilt all that motherfucking blood, physical or metaphorical. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s always been you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And motherfucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You slip again, but this time the bloodsoaked ground doesn’t catch you. You fall straight through, the ground itself splitting to take you, falling into Whatever Was Considered The Dark Carnival Now, chaining you to torment you for the rest of eternity as Paradox Space knew it-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>~</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You wake up in a cold sweat. Something is going off. An alarm maybe. You don’t know, you’re all kinds of discombobulated. Wait, no that ain’t an alarm. That’d be you. You’re screaming. Screaming yourself hoarse too, sounds like. You go to stop, but that ain’t happening. Voicebox seems to be all up and broken the fuck up. It ain’t turning off. You are screaming loud enough to hurt, your throat feeling raw, and your cheeks sticky with tears. You thrash in your human bed, suddenly overwhelmed and just wanting to find dreamless sleep again for once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door opens; you don’t fully notice, but it does. You don’t notice the skitter of fast footfall either. Not even when it approaches your bedside. You’re too busy being motherfucking miserable to notice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not til something slaps at your shoulders and horn and motherfucking face that you freeze, body, voicebox, and all, and you turn your ganderbulbs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor looks all frazzled and concerned as he looks at you. Motherfucker doesn’t even got his regular clothes on, gotta fuzzy little robe on instead. He’s crawled on an open drawer by the nightstand in order to get up to you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The gesture that he’d even come seeking out if you were ok after hearing screaming just made you dissolve into tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dammit, when were you gonna dry outta motherfucking tears?!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But The Mayor doesn’t seem to mind. He chitters and hugs you, and you can’t help but hug back, feeling itchy and restless and positive touch has never felt so good to your starved skin. He’s all small and shit, and his carapace is rock solid, but he gives good hugs anyways. For such a small motherfucker, he’s sure strong. His grip on you is sturdy. He squeezes you all kind like, and you can feel the tension start to leave your body. More chittering, and slowly, you relax and the room falls silent save your sniffling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...’m sorry,” you whisper into the quiet, as it’s the only thing you can think of to say. The Mayor chirps some bullshit you can’t understand and nudges a horn with a hand. He gives a pat on your shoulder and clambers up more to sit at your bedside. Chirp chirp chirp, and he gestures to his head before waving his arms all in a panic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes you a long, long, long, long minute to understand. By a long minute, you mean ten of them and The Mayor having to grab a pen and paper to write down what he wanted to ask. His voicebox couldn’t replicate your way of speaking, but he sure as hell could write. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...oh. Yeah. Daym- uh, nightmare,” you shrug. You forget that time is different here, and what was a daymare was technically a nightmare round these parts. The Mayor nods and writes down more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...protect me?” You question. The Mayor nods and ushers for you to wait before he hops off your bed and scampers off. When he returns, he’s holding a long stick of some kind with metal balls attached at the end. A weapon. He’s dressed in some weird ass Dersite-looking finery and he goes and stands at your door. And motherfucking salutes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He… he stands there the whole night. By your door. Protecting you from nothing, and you know it’s nothing, but for some reason it </span>
  <em>
    <span>works. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It works somehow. You lay there awake after a lot of chirping from The Mayor, and then you fall asleep, and the next thing you know, you’re up and The Mayor is poking you to get up and let him force you to eat something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He does that every night. Stands guard by your door to help you sleep. You dunno how </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>sleeps. Maybe he goes when you’ve conked out. Or maybe carapacians can go prolonged periods without shuteye. You don’t know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All you know is that after that night, the nightmares all but stop, and you wonder what sort of power The Mayor must have to scare away terror itself. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you oh so much for reading. I really do appreciate every single one of you and hope you're doing ok. Please remember I love you and you're gonna be ok. </p><p>Smile at least once today, you deserve it. </p><p>Feel free to comment/critique/say hello!</p><p>Have a splendid day y'all. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was a hard chapter to write, so I pushed myself through to finishing it and I hope it came out ok? Let me know. What's a slow-burn fic about redemption and redefining oneself called? Is that still called a slow-burn?</p><p>Enjoy! The only thing better than one awkward idiot trying to better themself is two awkward idiots trying to better themselves!</p><p>:D!!!</p><p>chapter songs:<br/>blinding lights by the weeknd<br/>boulevard of broken dreams by green day</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first curveball Terezi pitches your way is sitting in The Mayor’s office looking burly yet uncomfortable as The Mayor chirps away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For such a public figure (apparently, you had no clue bout that til you saw him on TV on the three channels you’re allowed to watch), he’s a private carapacian. It’s been you and him for all the weeks you’ve been here (it’s been weeks now), so you weren’t expecting to see anyone sitting in his office when you came in that afternoon. You’d walked in as you always did when you wanted to get your ask on with the Mayor, and you turned around and near fainted on sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jake English is… well, he’s not imposing, not on an emotional plane of existence. Like, at all. But damn did he sprout like motherfucking troll Jack and the Beanstalk. Humans usually never had any shit on your height, being highblooded and all, but Jake had the muscle to make up, human-wise. Built like a brick house. Motherfucker’s clothes looked fit to burst right off his squishy human self. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns in his chair to look at you. The Mayor waves enthusiastically. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You swallow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So does Jake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Er,” he speaks first, smiling all watery and waving, “ ‘ello, chap. Gamzee, right? I think I can rev up the old noggin engine to remember you somewhat. Well, remember you from...a while back, isn’t that so? No matter! It’s all blimey whats-it anyhow nowadays, isn’t that right, Mayor, old friend?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor chirps an affirmative, then waves a bit harder for you to come over. Can he see you starting to panic? You had wanted to ask The Mayor if you could go onto one of the top floors and look out the window (you couldn’t do that on your own, you had to ask, or your ankle collar shocked you bad). You were not expecting to be confronted with anyone you may know. Nor wish you didn’t. Any part of the past, you weren’t prepared for right now. And yet here was Jake…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...you swallow again, at a loss for words, so opt to listen and approach The Mayor instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Orders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You could motherfucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>follow </span>
  </em>
  <span>orders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You come to his side, putting in all your effort to not look at Jake, who stares all uncomfortable at the side of your sorry hide as you take knee at The Mayor’s little desk so he can address you. He chitters a bit and pats your shoulder like he has a habit of doing, and gestures to the other chair. It’s not next to Jake, but it certainly is too close to your liking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You whimper a bit. Jake speaks up. “I, er, won’t bite, lad! Aha.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sheepish smile on English’s face. It’s off putting despite Jake’s apparent friendliness. You ain’t a taker of friendliness no more lest it’s brought from The Mayor. The Mayor, who chirps again and hands you a cup of water from his desk, and then gently pushes you in the chair’s direction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You have no heart to not sit. Just fear, as you obey and do so. The water shakes a bit in your grip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You can feel Jake’s eyes on you, but he </span>
  <span>blessedly </span>
  <span>doesn’t try to pursue conversation. He just awkwardly looks to The Mayor and clears his throat. “...uh. Anyways… so, SkaiaTech, right. I was hoping to be able to implement some spiffy new gizmos we’ve been making…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jake and The Mayor chit chat about Can City and new things Jake wants to make in the name of sweet motherfucking civil service projects. You’re glad you ain’t front and center anymore. You’re content to sit there, curled up in one of these plush ass office chairs, and sip at the cup of water you were handed. You don’t got your understand on of half the words they’re all up and saying, but the constant back and forth of The Mayor’s chirps and pen scrolling on paper, and Jake’s constant peppy accent clog up the silence that would otherwise be suffocating in your empty think pan. They talk city speak while you get your zone out on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That is, til The Mayor chirps up and down, which you’ve become accustomed to knowing is his way of addressing you. You blink and look up. The Mayor chirps at you. Little guy is standing now, and he goes and gives you a good pat on the shoulder. His eyes are all beady, as usual, but they’re all lit up with… something else you can’t pin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he fucking leaves the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Motherfucker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alone now, sitting in that room with Jake English with naught but the half-empty plastic cup in your hands to distract you. You know you’re probably shaking again, but you ain’t gonna look to see if Jake’s taken up notice. You focus all hard and shit on your cup, at getting it to your lips and sipping as quietly as possible. Anything to not be in that space at that moment. The silence is somewhat deafening, and you half wish Jake would just leave or at least say something demeaning to you like all the rest, because at least it’d provide you with either peace or normalcy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, he lets the silence go on for too long before he breathlessly chuckles, and you hear him shift in his seat. “So… Gamzee. How are you, chum? You’ve been alright? Can’t say I’ve, well, heard much from you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your feet shuffle where you’re curled on the chair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“N-not that I-I think that’s bad! Or good. Just a good ol’ observation is all! Ahaha. Uh. Anyways. Did uh… uh…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The stuttering is not making you feel an ounce of jack shit better, and the more he stutters the more speckles of warm, cozy brown you see in the corners of your vision and you fear you may start to panic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...oof,” Jake lacklusterdly sighs, and you can hear him shift again, probably sinking in his seat. “Sorry. Not a touch of conversationalism in me, huh? I’m… not famed for it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A beat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...what did you think of what The Mayor and I were talking about? With the city? SkaiaTech’s got chops, wouldn’t you say?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You sip your water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gadzooks, you may be a worse conversationalist than I. Well… we have that in common, don’t we?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That makes Jake laugh to himself. It does not make you laugh at all, however. You just swirl what’s left in your cup and pretend to not wish the liquid inside of it were more viscous and green, if just to levitate you from this hellacious moment in time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>More silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... I quite like your jacket, by the by,” Jake softly offers. “It looks very comfortable. Is it used for the outdoors?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I ain’t allowed outdoors,” you quietly mumble, agitation itching under your skin with your lack of patience and your increasing anxiety. It wasn’t meant for Jake to hear. He hears it anyways, and you glance up because he’s fallen silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks shocked, mouth agape. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What!? Absolute balderdash, the audacity! Says who!?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...uh,” you helpfully offer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why, the outdoors in a surefire cure for all! Adventure is a mindnumbing substitute for gods-knows is well damn near everything! You’ll forgive my mention, this is all common knowledge about you, good chum,” Jake just kinda goes off a minute, and you watch him jump to his feet and begin walking around the room. He’s talking as if someone offended him personally. “It’s scientifically proven that fresh air is nothing if not a heal-all for any illness that isn’t terminal. By jove, I will delegate most of my healing time on this planet to it’s most capable wildernesses! Even my newfound friendships, I’d attribute to the greenery! The shrubbery! The vastness of Gaia herself! Well, Gaia C, I suppose, would be the correct terminology. To hear such shenaniganry is perplexion on all levels! Why it’s offensive! Preposterous! I dare say it’s blasphemo-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” you blurt out, cutting him off. Jake jumps and looks your way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...not that word,” you whimper. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...oh. My apologies, good chap.” Jake looks apologetic. You’d like to tell him not to be, and that it ain’t his fault none, but you don’t feel extra speaky right now so you don’t. He shifts on his feet, and then moves a bit robotically to sit down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jake’s a… pretty awkward person. You dunno if that makes you feel better or worse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... I shall speak to Terezi immediately,” Jake says all soft, “and see if she will let you outside if it’s with my supervision. I cannot abide by a fellow living being subject to being indoors all the time. How could she think I could abide by such a thing? And to think, you’ve been here weeks…!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he says that, you realize that he was sent here. Terezi must have sent him here. Oh. You tense more, somehow, with that realization. Jake is definitely clumsy, but he’d seemed genuine before. Now you can’t unsee his fakeness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least he seems genuinely miffed that you can’t go outside without getting fried like a psionic after burnout. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I’m going quite off the beaten path, aren’t I?” Jake mumbles, before turning to you in his chair. “I’ve made such a terrible impression on you, I’m sure. How may I make it up to you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stop talking, is what you’d like to say. Instead you… stare at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jake is the one who swallows this time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...I’ve properly botched this whole shindig, haven’t I? You look more spooked than when you first came in. Ugh,” Jake groaned, leaning back. “I’m sorry, Gamzee. I’m supposed to- well. Whatever,” he sighs, “may I start over? Would you be alright with that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You very much would like to point out how he literally just kind of talked himself in a circle, and you want to question if he’d began anything to start over from. But instead you just give a timid nod and sip the last of your water.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Splendid,” he says, then clears his throat. “I believe that for now, since you’re barred from the outdoors for some reason, I can regale you with some tales of my adventures here? Would that be nice?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You nod.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful. Where should I begin…?”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Weeeeee look at the boy go! Welcome to the We Finally Get Some Gamzee Interacting With Others Portion of the arc. </p><p>I hope you enjoyed! Lemme know if you didn't, or something could be better, I'd like to make this as good a story as possible. I have ~plans~ but feel free to tell me thoughts. </p><p>Sending love all your way, and hope you smile at least once today. Drink water!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy very late 4/13! I am returning to this work because I Am Sad And Need Comfort. I'll probably be working on Be Better at the same time, but we'll see. I wanna continue this though! I hope it's a good enough continuation to warrant such a thing!</p><p>chapter song:<br/>FOOLS by troye sivan</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s a cold night, where your joints don’t work. You ain’t motherfucking winter material. This isn’t your scene. Yet, the snow comes down anyways and seeps into the walls of The Mayor’s mansion. It’s chilly. You spend more time in a ball of blankets than you do out of it. Jake gifted you with a fur-lined blanket he had from one of his travels to one of Earth C’s many exotic islands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jake has become a… a less threatening presence. You’re scared to call him a friend. You lose friends easily. But he shows up more and more often, and is never adverse to spending time with you. He talks a lot, about so many things, and you love not having to fill in the silence that deafens you whenever it arises. Jake has a lot going on in his life. You have nothing. It’s like living vicariously through his words, and it gives you a sense of spirit, in the crushing absence of your own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He talks about his business SkaiaTech, his home, the pet dogs he has that he and Jade love to bits and pieces, his media presence, the latest party he had to attend, the latest gossip. He’s no fashion mogul and he tells you so, so once or twice he’s had you give an opinion on what he should wear to the next red carpet he has to attend. He can’t style himself. It makes him nervous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He also talks about his private social life. You have cautioned him only once about the shared figures of your pasts. You aren’t ready yet. You aren’t ready. He respectfully and thankfully keeps it mostly to the humans of his session, who you are scarcely familiar with, seeing as you only briefly met Jane that one time with the potions. Unfortunately this means you are also most privy to his love life, which. Damn. If quadrants were considered complicated by human standards, what the motherfuck is Jake in? An octagon? It only concerns two humans, but seems like he ping pongs back and forth so hard between pleasing both of them that your own head spins from it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You know Jane, but you don’t really know the main source of Jake’s pains, which is Dirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just Dirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Conveniently doesn’t mention his last name at all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So that night when Jake checks his phone and informs you that Dirk is stopping by with his brother, you don’t suspect that Terezi’s second curveball is coming your way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t mind terribly, do you?” Jake asks, anxiety in his tone. “Sometimes Dirk gets on these tirades and simply must speak with me about a blue print he’s been drafting up for me. Really, you’d think someone who’s as much a prat as Dirk would be easily pied off from a face to face conversation…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor chirps in the affirmative. You just nod and listen. In reality, your nutritional sac is knocking on Death’s door and asking for it’s unholy motherfucking express lane. You hate the prospect of people. But Jake seems so mussed up about it, and he ain’t been nothing but merciful unto you thus far… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He won’t come too far inside. He’ll be in and out,” Jake said assertively, scrolling on his phone, “I promise, alright? Just him and his brother. Why are they even out in the frigid?! I do hope they have coats. Bloody daft, seriously, that family, thinks every season is summer…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You don’t think Jake talks like this usually. He’s too free with his words. Maybe you’re a backboard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You sip the chocolate drink The Mayor made you to help warm your hands in peace as Jake rambles on, until The Mayor’s pager rings. Someone’s at the door. Your hands shake more on your mug and your knees draw closer in together from where you had them folded into your chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah! Should be them. Mayor, if you would?” Jake cheerily asks, standing to full height as The Mayor chirps and does the same. Jake turns to you, and his eyes soften. “...you can stay up here, chap. They won’t come upstairs, alright?” He raises a hand to your shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You flinch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lowers it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...alright! Mayor, off with it,” he says, too chipper to not be making up for awkwardness, and he’s off. The Mayor chirps at you and pats your ankle, offering comfort and pointing back at Jake, then miming his guardsmen pose. You’ll be protected. No one will hurt you with The Mayor around. You calm, somewhat, and watch The Mayor scuttle off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your relationship with silence is tense at best. You sip your drink and watch the snow fall from the window. Little flakes of pure white. You’ve never so longed for the world like you do now, more in your motherfucking pan than you ever have been and the urge to see beauty that you will never, ever possess is suffocating. You still can’t go outside. The most you’ve gone is the balcony on the top floor of The Mayor’s house, and even then you have to go with The Mayor, so it’s on his time schedule. The balcony overlooks the city. It’s a beautiful view, but you wish there was also a balcony that overlooked the plot of woods on the other side. You’re being too greedy though. And you know you are. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You are mid-day dream about what a flower would feel like under your palm when Dave Strider walks into the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dave got tall too, though not as tall as Jake. He’s toned and lithe in structure, doesn’t take up the doorway but motherfucker does he take up </span>
  <em>
    <span>space. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s grown since you last saw him, a human with presence, a few coils of his hair got dyed red and gold piercings he didn’t have when you both were teenagers. One thing that’s remained the same though are his shades. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They hide absolutely nothing about the way he stares at you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You stare back, not expecting anyone to be able to get past The Mayor’s front lines, but you suppose if anyone could it would be Dave. Or maybe The Mayor finally gave up on protecting you and let him upstairs. Maybe both he and Jake lied. Another likely possibility, and the thought alone makes your pusher weep with freshly opened wounds. Nothing hurts worse than knowing you’re alone, and that on top of the fear you currently feel is making your entire body itch and you feel lightheaded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sup,” Dave monotones. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You place the mug down in increments ,and slowly raise your hands in surrender from where you’re sitting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...raise the roof? What?” Dave asks, then goes back. “Oooooh. Nah, I’m not the fucking police force, dude. ACAB. Not only the slogan to go by but also a sick rhyme scheme if you play that shit right. Fun fact, police can’t rap. Also not ditching Tez by the wayside there but like I low key totally am. You know Terezi still, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You startle and nod feverishly. You’re shaking so hard the blankets around you fall off. You are struggling to breathe a bit and you have no clue what’s going on anymore. Your body is on autopilot and you are sure you’re going to faint. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dave stares at you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. She said I should go with Dirk to hash shit out with Jake, but that’s a can of Goya beans the government supports me opening and thus I’m not going to succumb to the popular demand of it. I came anyways, but like, whatever. They’re going over some blueprint downstairs and pretending to not be making out at some point and then denying that they’re a thing, when they definitely are, and The Mayor is making me hot chocolate because I asked and he’s the best hands down.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glances at the mug you put aside. “He makes the good shit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dave walks in, the heels of his dress shoes clicking, and your eyes trail his every move. He comes to The Mayor’s desk and takes a pen, clicking it and leaning against the while facing you. You really wish he wouldn’t. This is a human that sent you one video file that very well destroyed your life, and then you doubly went and destroyed his in turn, pretty much. Or at least tried to, thank non-existent gods above you didn’t, they managed to win. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your throat feels tight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I honestly don’t know why? Tez said I should come here? Maybe she wanted to show off her work, I dunno, I figured you were gonna be hella different than how you were when I knew you,” Dave rattles off, turning the pen this way and that between his fingers. “Like, back then, we were what, 13? 14? 15? 16? All of the above? Who knows, better ask a god of Time or something, I dunno, the game was a hella long time. Approximately 5 years, 4 months, 8 weeks, 17 days, 3 hours, 42 minutes, 21 seconds long, give or take 5 milliseconds, I hate milliseconds, shit ticks way too fast. But who’s counting? Me, I’m counting. I’m the counter. It’s me. Actually, and backtracking, this is me slamming the breaks and telling the conductor to go backwards despite all goodwill saying we shouldn’t or else we’re gonna run into a possible trolley problem via the railway company and not the actual railway or trolleys involved… wait, shit, what was I supposed to be backtracking to?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You blink at him. You really can’t stop shaking. He’s going to hurt you, or maybe kill you. You hope not here. It’ll stain the chairs and it’d be a right shame. The Mayor loved these chairs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You think he’s looking at you. He puts the pen down and hoists himself up onto the desk, sitting down on top. Then he takes the pen back, though you don’t exactly know if he did it consciously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Meh, doesn’t matter. Tldr; came here with Dirk, knew you were here, came to see what the project’s current stage was.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Project. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You motherfucking despise that word. Project. Like ain’t even alive to these people. But you can’t complain, you’re in no place to. You just shrink into yourself and wait for Dave to either kill you, hurt you, or leave. He’s always kind of mocking people, so you guess you don’t have to wait about mocking you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“......quiet,” he said, “not even a honk? Just for old time’s sake?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You cringe and slowly hang your head. Ok, now you’re shaking worse. Your breathing revamps. You start to worry a bit when your vision gets blotchy, and you get downright panicky when you move your hand and find you can’t feel your fingers.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...whoa. Dude, chill,” Dave says, holding his hands up, “you’re fine, alright? It’s ok. So ok. I’m over here, you’re over there, last I checked you haven’t killed anyone or fucked with their corpses or-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your eyes roll, and the last thing you think of is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why’s this motherfucker always gotta ruin shit for me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank for you reading my trash!! Lemme know if you like it or if you want something to happen, very open to suggestions. </p><p>Have a swell day yall. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter songs:<br/>broken people by almost monday<br/>You Got This by Love &amp; The Outcome</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When you wake up, The Mayor is at your side, along with Dave, who looks just the slightest hint apologetic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You groan, everything feeling dry, and The Mayor chirps at you loud and expectant. It’s too loud. You shake your head, as if that would help your body settle, but it does the exact opposite, and your nutritional sac turns itself inside out uncomfortably. Eugh. You heave for a few moments before the puke-feeling mercifully passes your sorry husk by, and you breathe again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“....ok, no throw up bombs. Fucking mint.” Dave says, and you wince a bit where you lay. You realize you're still  in The Mayor’s office, on the floor. Feeling rushes back in. It’s cold. Your blankets are still in the chair. You cough weakly and try to orient yourself to reach them, but your body ain’t cooperating none. Figures. Too dependent on puppet strings for too long. Fucking, fucking figures…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Mayor fusses over you for a period, and you try to reassure him you’re ok with weak bats of your hands. He’s not having it though. Keeps chirping up a fuss in your direction, making sure you aren’t… something. You don’t really know. All you remember really is passing out. Did something happen? While you were out? Your organs drop low in your torso when your pan rattles with the hypothesis that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did something while you were out. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You hurt again. Maybe you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed </span>
  </em>
  <span>again. Your breathing picks up again in panic, eyes darting around for answers, anything-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whoa, whoa, dude, calm the fuck down,” Dave says briskly, The Mayor distressedly trying to hold you down. The monotone of his natural voice and The Mayor’s care bring you down, though your eyes are still desperately looking for an answer. Maybe two. Maybe more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dave speaks in a whisper to The Mayor for a moment. The carapacian nods and pats your forehead like he does when you go to sleep, reassuring, and then scampers off. You are again left with Dave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You lay there. Whatever he wants to do to you, he’s welcome to it, free shots all around. But you don’t feel like he’s going to, anymore, unless he’s that brand of motherfucking dumb and didn’t go with it while the going was good, killed you while you were all up and down for the count. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which, may very well be, for Strider. Hm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He kneels at your side. You eye him warily, eyes still darting, but you don’t dare move a frond from your position. He sits and then just… sighs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He was worried for exactly this,” he says, low in tone, “so worried, for exactly this. That you’d not like, change at all, and be unfixable, or… or. This. Something in between where you aren’t in the business of mur-- uh, of. Y’know. Doing bad shit, going fucking Lord Voldemort on all our asses. Between that and </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>type of unfixable. My brand, actually, I think was his wording? My brand of unfixable. Where it’s not a fucking bad thing, but… it sits with you, and… it’s. It’s something we all have. That you’re just like us now. Again.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. He’s always right. That’s annoyingly sweet as shit, for real.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You blink slowly. You’ve lost him. He pinches the bridge of his nose above his glasses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look. Dude. I’m sorry. The Mayor’s right, I shouldn’t have come up here, knowing you were here and in </span>
  <em>
    <span>recovery </span>
  </em>
  <span>and not, like, solely a project for Terezi’s fucked up notion of justice and guilty conscience. Whatever she’s doing.” He gestures nonchalantly. “I guess I didn’t think it’d be bad? And she encouraged me to come with Dirk and check your deal out, which I honestly should have known was such a fucking ruse, because since when did Dirk ever come close to Jake without the known intention of sucking face these days….”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s talking too fast. You’re too tired to try and keep up. You just lie there and direct your gaze to the ceiling. Dave is quiet a moment more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...I’m sorry, again. I’m kinda shitty at apologies.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...same,” you say raspy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks at you. His gaze burns holes into your already hole-riddled think pan. Poor motherfucker, your think pan. Can’t catch a break. Probably the only thing that’s hole-y about you now, is your pan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You make yourself snort. Ha, you’re funny. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...right? Apologies suck. Never know where to start with mine,” he says, conversational. His drawl itches at your skin, but it’s got no malice behind it, so you let it go. “And I have to apologize a lot. My brain’s not totally functional, believe it or not, shocker, I know. But like, even before the game it wasn’t. And it moves too fast for me to catch up. Shit’s unbearable sometimes as much as it is fucking clutch, especially in the mundance shit. Like Pictionary? Forget it. I’m the fucking master, no one can fuck with me at Pictionary. Ever played Pictionary?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You shake your head. Still talking too fast. You wish he’d stop but also don’t wish he’d stop because you dunno if you can take the silence any better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where was I going with that. Uh… oh, right, brain, not chugging along the choo-choo track. Apologies. They’re tough for me too because I can never find the right words to say. Shit fucking sucks.” He fiddles with his jacket cuff. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You can’t find words to reply with. So you don’t reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... I’m sorry. Again. For freaking you out. Tez says one thing, yeah, but The Mayor is the one actually taking care of you, and he says you’ve been doing fucking peachy, 10/10 cans, best troll he’s ever taken care of. And for your </span>
  <em>
    <span>informacion</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’s taken care of a lot. He’s a fucking parental figure god. Mayor </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>the fixer of so many mommy and daddy issues? He’s just THE best. Fuck I love The Mayor so much. Do you like The Mayor?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You nod. You understand that question. You do like The Mayor. He feeds you and cares about you and protects you at night from what you know is nothing, but fear nonthemotherfuckingless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right?” Dave says, his usual energy seeping back into the monotone of his voice, something that ricochets and glances off the walls like bullets off the blade of a sword, “Fucking love that little dude. He said he was gonna go get you soup.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. You like soup. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pft, you just lit up like a fucking light bulb on a South-bound train station switch board on a foggy night in a Nick Cassavetes film.” Dave huffs an emotionless laugh. “Guess you’re a soup guy? Never pegged you as a soup guy. Struck me as sandwiches.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...those too,” you offer, voice raspy. Dave doesn’t comment on it, he just goes off about Reuben sandwiches until The Mayor comes back to deliver your food and warm up your frigid, paralyzed-by-fear body. He stays with you both, taking up the silence with Dave, and they both try to help you back up to sitting. Well. Try. You start shaking when Dave takes your arm, vision whiting out as your pan supplies you with many helpful images of getting chopped to bits via angry katana, and making you stumble and wheeze something unholy fierce. So it’s just The Mayor that helps you. But Dave eases after that, and his presence somewhat reminds you of Jake’s, filling in the silence with things no one cares about. The Mayor stays this time, for which you’re grateful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time Jake and Dirk ascend the stairs looking for everyone, both clearly less put together than before, you are back in blankets with a soup bowl in hand and listening to Dave ramble about the struggle that was synthesizers. He and Dirk exchange something silently with a nod (Dirk only briefly looks your way, uninterested), and Dave stands to follow them out. Jake smiles and waves his goodbye to you, hastily, a quick “Gotta go! By for now, chap!” that’s rushed as hell. That’s something he does often though. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dave pauses before leaving, looking your way. You can’t make eye contact with him again, so you just sip your soup silently. When you glance up, he looks contemplative. He then nods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...we’re rooting for you, bro,” he says, thoughtful, voice full of an emotion you can’t place, before walking out with the same swagger as before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You sit there with those words for a good hour, unmoving. You always knew the power of words, how they weave their righteous motherfucking fingers into the think pan and rend it to bits as much as they can soothe, though you haven’t known them to soothe in a very long time, truly, not since rainbows and abandoned beaches and dreams that were tangible upon calloused six-sweep-old fingers. These words seemed like an attempt at it, if nothing else. From Dave, though, was strange, and eased itself into your chest cavity like a motherfucking ooze, all slimy in your fronds and sticking to your palms in the worst way. We. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We. Who’s </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>we</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you wonder. Intended as a plural, or a polite type of first person, like the trolls of old did? Coming down to your level? Trying to be kind to you? No. Couldn’t be. He wasn’t your friend. No, no, you weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>friend. You were enemies. And yet, he regarded you softly, even with remorse at setting you the motherfuck off. And for what? Maybe for what he was saying about Terezi before, his own guilty conscience. Maybe for naught. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You ain’t in no place to question him.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then again, he ain’t in no place to treat you like a friend he hadn’t spoken to in motherfucking sweeps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You look back out the window. The snow floats down, soft as it had before. Nothing has changed since you last peered into the world out there, pristine and untouched. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We’re rooting for you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You allow yourself a very small smile. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't worry!!!! It gets worse again!!!!!</p><p>To all who have read and left such nice words I can't thank you enough. You guys are the real ones, and you always keep me going! I really appreciate everyone who gives me feedback on this lil story. </p><p>I hope you guys are doing well! Drink water if you haven't, take a nap, treat yourself a little, and smile today. </p><p>I love you. Mwah. :)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i have plans for this fic, but lemme know if its something you want to see more of? i know its stupid but reassurance helps with fics like these. </p><p>above all else have a wonderful day and i hope you get to smile at least once. :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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